Shining City

by Seth Greenland

  But it was difficult to stop.

  Marcus realized this could create difficulties.

  So he vowed there would be no sampling of the goods, no fraternizing with the workforce, no office romance. He would not extract so much as a single sexual favor from even one of the women in his charge. Why would he not avail himself of this Dionysian smorgasbord now a mere speed-dial away? Because of Jan. She may have withheld sex from him, but he perceived that to be because of tension, worry, fatigue—all of the bugaboos that subtly undermine otherwise healthy marriages. He loved her. Yes, it was simple, even banal. Yet there it was. He knew Jan would be upset if she found out—no, not upset, apoplectic—and that was reason enough to endure this self-torture.

  Marcus looked at Xiomara in the rearview mirror. She wanted to work under the name Jenna since no American she’d met could pronounce Xiomara (Zho-mah-ra). Tight white jeans, a loose jersey, and violet pumps made her look like she’d been in Los Angeles a while. Black hair fell loosely below her shoulders. She had large dark eyes and an unlined, delicately made-up face.

  “Nicaragua,” Xiomara/Jenna was saying, “is much nicer with the Sandinistas gone. Any political system that tells you to love everyone … watch out for those guys.”

  “Why don’t you stay, you like it so much?” Amstel said.

  “I have a daughter, so I need to make money. In Managua I was a secretary, but the pay is not so good.” Xiomara/Jenna took out a box of Tic Tacs and popped one in her mouth. She offered one to Amstel, who accepted it.

  Rolling the Tic Tac on her tongue, Amstel said “I am from Latvia and I tell you, is complete dump, okay? Was dump under Communists and is dump now.” This was intoned with the certainty of a guest on a Sunday morning talk show. No one was going to argue. They rode in silence for a few moments, listening to the hip-hop pounding from the speakers. “Latvian peoples all want big-screen TV and shiny car, same as here, but they have no money. In Riga I was actress. Successful, too. I was cast member in Latvian National Theater all-female production Twelve Angry Men. Drama critic of Latvietis Latvija writes ‘She shows great promise in demanding role of holdout.’ Here, look.” Amstel removed a laminated clipping from her black suede purse and handed it to Xiomara/Jenna, who glanced at it, more impressed now (although she could not read the Cyrillic in which the review was written). “I had small part in Skroderdienas Silmacos at State Theatre. Is by Rüdolfs Blaumanis. You know him?”

  “Who?” She handed the clipping back to Amstel.

  “He is Latvian Chekhov. You know Chekhov?”

  “I didn’t bring any condoms,” Mink said over her shoulder. “Could I borrow a few?” Amstel reached into her purse and handed her a pack. “I owe you,” Mink said, stuffing them in her red leather purse.

  “Did you go to university?” Xiomara/Jenna asked Amstel. When Amstel shook her head, Xiomara/Jenna made a clicking sound with her tongue intended to convey disapproval of her colleague’s cavalier attitude toward higher education. “You should. It’s not too late. You can’t do this forever.”

  “I will be actress in America,” Amstel said.

  “I’ll get another job when I have a green card,” Xiomara/Jenna said.

  “I have two years of college and I’m doing this,” Mink chimed in.

  Marcus had been listening so intently, he didn’t notice when the car in front of him pulled ahead in the slow-moving traffic, leaving a fifty-foot gap. Two other cars, believing his lane was now moving, cut in front of him before he realized what was going on. He stepped on the gas pedal too quickly, causing the van to jerk forward.

  “Breeze, you ever drive van before?” Amstel said. “Or do you need learner’s permit?” Everyone laughed, relaxing the slight tension in the van.

  Marcus dropped Mink off at a business hotel near LAX and made plans to pick her up in two hours. She would see a salesman in town from Toronto. He then drove to a modern house in Venice, a futuristic two-story glass-and-steel structure, where Xiomara/Jenna had a date with a member of the Los Angeles Opera who wanted oral sex and a back rub. Amstel had a date at a condo in Marina del Rey, where the middle-aged owner of a hamburger chain watched hungrily as she stripped down to her (pre-requested) nylons, garters, and stiletto pumps, then strapped on a dildo and repeatedly penetrated his wife, who slipped Amstel an extra hundred when her husband turned his back.

  Because of the way the drop-offs and pick-ups were scheduled, Marcus had nothing to do other than drive, which was fine with him. Eventually he collected them all, received his share of their earnings, then ferried them back to Shining City. Marcus told them about the health plan he’d selected. There was a wellness program (with discounted health club membership), a prescription drug plan, a vision/eyewear plan, and dental insurance. The women were pleased and he reveled in their volubly appreciative reactions. The time for reflection had ended. He was starting to feel good again.

  Jan offered a sleepy hello when Marcus lay down beside her later that night. He had thought she was asleep. Marcus placed his hand on her hip and felt the long flannel nightgown. He wanted to burn it. She asked him how his day had gone, and he told her everything was fine. Then he kissed her on the lips and was pleasantly surprised when she kissed him back. Hers was not a sensual kiss, exactly, but it intimated more than she had recently offered and, still keyed up from the effects of the evening, Marcus kissed her again. She groaned pleasurably and he moved toward her neck, kissing her there and on her earlobe and her eyelids.

  “Mmmm, Marcus, I think the dry cleaning business agrees with you.” He continued kissing her as he reached down, hiked up the flannel and slipped her panties off. He was thrilled when she didn’t object. As they rocked back and forth, Marcus found it difficult not to think about the women with whom he’d spent the evening, their skin, scents, contours. For years now his sex life had been prosaic, familiar and predictable, loving and boring. Marcus pined for the early days, the frenzied, peppered excitement of the new and unexpected. He didn’t want to be with other women, he only wanted to be with Jan, but in a special, more fulfilling way. It wasn’t something he intended to discuss, not at the moment. Tonight he wanted to try something different, tonight he would try something different, and as Marcus felt the force gathering in his sacrum he realized now was the time, right now, and he withdrew. Before Jan apprehended the plan, she felt a warm wetness on her chest.

  “Marcus … what did you do?” Her tone was accusatory.

  “Nothing!”

  “I’m all … ughh … I can’t believe you just did that! What is wrong with you?”

  He was surprised at her reaction, mistakenly believing twin orgasms had lulled her to quiescence.

  “It’s not like it was molten lava,” he said.

  She was already out of the bed and walking toward the bathroom. He could hear the waves of displeasure emanating from her, vibrating, banging around the room. She turned the light on in the bathroom and it shined in his eyes for the second before she closed the door behind her. A moment later, she returned, wiping her chest with a hand towel.

  “Have you been watching porn or something?”

  “No.”

  She pulled her nightgown down over her shoulders and settled back into bed, shaking her head. He had been hoping for an entirely different response. He wasn’t sure what exactly, just not this. “Where did that come from?”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry.” He lay on his back with his eyes closed and tried to be less annoyed. “Is it such a big deal?”

  “No, but you’ve never done it before and if you’re going to do something like that, I’d like it if you warned me…”

  Now he opened his eyes and looked at her: “Warn you?”

  “So I could have a few drinks to get ready.” He laughed, relieved her voice was missing some of the edge it had a moment ago. The tone still wasn’t one you’d hear on a meditation tape, but the overt hostility had ebbed. “It’s not that I won’t let you do it, if that’s what you want, but we’ve barely been hav
ing sex and then I’m half asleep and I get jumped in my bed by Porn Guy. I was just surprised.” Marcus apologized again, and squeezed her hand. She told him she wasn’t mad. They nestled into the spoon position and Jan drifted off to sleep. Marcus disengaged when his back began to hurt.

  The first bottle of sake barely lasted ten minutes. Marcus threw back the last of it and ordered another one from the pretty Japanese waitress whose left arm was entirely covered by a series of elaborate anime-inspired tattoos. It was early on a Tuesday evening, and he and Amstel were seated in a small sushi restaurant in West Hollywood. Colored lights had been strung above the sushi bar, and a small silver Christmas tree was doing time near the entrance, small Eastern acknowledgments of the dominant seasonal myth. Amstel was perusing the piece of paper Marcus had placed in front of her. He had given extensive thought to legal liability, and with that in mind had downloaded a document from the Internet. It stated: I (fill in the blank) AGREE THAT MARCUS RIPPS WILL BE SETTING APPOINTMENTS BY PHONE FOR ME. WE HAVE DISCUSSED AND AGREED THAT HE DOES NOT EXPECT ME TO PERFORM ANY ILLEGAL ACTS FOR MONEY. IF I DECIDE TO PERFORM OR PARTICIPATE IN ANYTHING ILLEGAL DURING THE APPOINTMENTS HE HAS SET UP FOR ME, I AM 100% COMPLETELY RESPONSIBLE FOR MY OWN ACTIONS. Marcus, exhibiting a touching belief in the sanctity of contracts, intended to get everyone to sign. He was certain this would take care of whatever problems might arise.

  Amstel signed it with the pen Marcus gave her and slid it back across the table.

  “You look tired, Breeze.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “You are married?” They had never discussed anything personal before (not counting the variety of sex acts Amstel was willing to perform for money), and Marcus was taken aback. He told her he was.

  “You are good guy, Breeze, not looking for free samples at work. Let me tell you secret. Next time you are in bed with wife, listen to her breathe, then match your breath with hers, in and out, in and out, you are breathing together. She will not understand what you are doing, but she will sense you are … what? Congenial. Okay?”

  Marcus thought about that for a moment. Given how Jan had reacted to his sex play the last time, perhaps just breathing together would have a salutary effect. He told Amstel he’d try it.

  “If breathing does not work, I will tell you about the egg.”

  “The egg?”

  “It vibrates. I give them for Easter.”

  He tossed back some more sake, taking pleasure in the warmth as it coursed down his throat. Amstel was wearing tight black pants and a loose red sweater. Her face had only the slightest trace of makeup, and her blonde hair was held back by a pale yellow silk band. She leaned back in her seat, relaxed. Taking a sip of sake, she said “I like you, Breeze, so I want to be honest.” Marcus was sharp enough to know that the phrase I want to be honest was generally the prelude to a lie, but now his head was slightly hazy from the sake. He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. They were blue and he could see flecks of brown in the iris. “I don’t know how long I will do this.” Marcus nodded and told her she could stop whenever she wanted. “Juice would not have told me that.”

  “What would he have said?” Marcus asked, genuinely curious.

  “He would tell me keep working.” Amstel took another sip of her drink. “You guys were …?” Marcus saw she was searching her database for the correct English word.

  “Close? No.” He told Amstel about his relationship with Julian, how he barely knew him as an adult, how they weren’t even speaking when he died.

  Amstel said she thought that was sad. “I didn’t like him, he was kind of prick … I’m being honest, okay? But he watched out for girls.” The waitress came with another round.

  Marcus asked about her personal life, and she told him she wasn’t involved with anyone right now, that it was difficult given what she did for a living. He wondered if she’d been married but didn’t want to ask. Amstel told him about emigrating from Latvia, how she tried to get work as an actress in America but it had been impossible. He told her how he got into the business and that he had almost moved to China. She laughed a few times and touched his arm when she wanted to emphasize a point. Marcus was starting to feel as if he was on a date. He wanted to lean across the table and kiss her, but he knew that was a bad idea.

  The plan was for Amstel to drive herself to an assignation in Huntington Beach. It was too far for Marcus to take her with the other women in the van, and he trusted her not to cheat him. He paid the check and walked her to her SUV. She had parked on a side street, and when she clicked the door open a light came on in the interior that cast a soft glow in the darkness. The second sake had gone to his head, so Marcus didn’t resist when Amstel said good night and kissed him gently on the lips, lingering a little longer than he would have expected. She reached behind his neck with her fingertips and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched for just a moment. Then she released him and smiled, her head tilted down slightly, a wry expression on her pretty face. He could tell she was a little drunk.

  “I like you, Breeze … you are okay. If I can do for you, ask me.”

  Despite the alcohol he’d ingested, Marcus resisted the temptation. He told Amstel he’d enjoyed talking to her and walked back to his own car wondering how he could possibly maintain the vow he had made to himself.

  “What are you doing, Marcus?”

  “I’m breathing.”

  It was one in the morning, and he had been lying next to Jan for twenty minutes. She had been sleeping when he arrived, having spent the evening chauffeuring his workforce all over the Los Angeles area. He climbed into bed naked, snuggling next to her. She faced away from him, and now his erection pressed against her thigh. When she rolled onto her back, Marcus caressed her breast, his breath in rhythm with hers. This went on until he had counted twelve breaths in and twelve breaths out, all of them synchronized.

  “You’re imitating me.”

  “No, no. I’m just breathing.”

  “I’m too tired to make love right now.”

  “I just want to breathe.”

  “Okay.”

  He continued to mirror her breaths, his chest rising and falling. This went on for another few minutes, and Marcus was overjoyed when Jan reached down and began to stroke him. He knew he should not push his luck and try to introduce any new dishes to the menu tonight. As they sleepily made love, Marcus thought about how closely their sex life was tied to the balance in their checking account. He found himself wondering if this was a particularly middle-class affliction. Great swaths of the world were peopled by those with little money who had a great deal of sex, at least if the numbers of their offspring were any indication. But this was a fleeting thought. More than anything, he was pleased that Jan was relaxed enough to get physical.

  Marcus was stunned to find that by Christmas he was grossing around twenty-five thousand dollars a week, most of which was in cash (he was informed by Kostya that regular clients were allowed to write checks; credit cards were never accepted). He got to keep twenty-five percent of what his workers earned, which meant his take was in the area of six thousand five hundred a week, out of which he had to give Kostya twenty percent or, roughly, twelve hundred and change. After accounting for a few hundred dollars in business costs, Marcus found himself making forty-five hundred tax-free dollars a week. This projected to eighteen thousand dollars a month, or two hundred and sixteen thousand a year, almost quadruple what he had been making while working for Wazoo Toys. If things continued to go smoothly, the Ripps family debt, so recently overwhelming, was going to be retired far sooner than expected. Marcus didn’t have a family health plan, but now he could afford one, along with whatever prize he desired should he want to conjure an external symbol of his change in fortune. Lenore’s eyes could be properly looked after, and if she needed to ease the pressure on her ocular nerves, she would be able to smoke more pot than a village of Rastafarians. Nathan’s educational therapist, tutors, clarinet teacher, and orthodo
nist could be paid. Marcus could even float Ripcord, should he choose. It was a brilliant setup. He did the math and made a silent pact with himself—he would operate the business for two years. In that time, he would get out of debt, build a nest egg, and find a new line of work.

  Despite his philosophical search for an overarching justification, a vestigial, difficult-to-eradicate sense of doing something wrong lingered on the edge of his consciousness. However much he tried to banish these thoughts, the nature of the work continued to trouble him, and he worried about the women in his employ. Who were these people? It was impossible to generalize, other than to say they were relatively young, in good physical shape, and not unskilled in the traditional sense of the word. Along with Amstel, Xiomara/Jenna, and Mink there was a Chinese-American and an African-American. There was a white girl from Redondo Beach, and a Latina from Boyle Heights. There were two students at local colleges, and, this being Los Angeles, there was an actress. There was a woman going through a divorce whose soon-to-be-ex-husband was recalcitrant about paying alimony, and there was a single mother whose daughter was on a partial scholarship at a Catholic school and was doing this to make up the difference. There was a little model who, at 5′4″, was finding her height to be more of an impediment than she was previously willing to consider. There was a former funeral-home cosmetologist who could no longer bear the nearness of death, and so was drawn to the opposite primordial experience. They were women who didn’t want to test their work skills on a market that would have them be a waitress at Bennigan’s, or a sales associate at the Gap, or a barista at Starbucks, when they could earn more in an afternoon than someone laboring at one of those places could make in a week and so what if they did it by selling sex. If America was having an epic party in its pants, why shouldn’t they make a buck out of it? As for Marcus, it was like the man on the financial TV show said: Someone’s going to get rich; it may as well be you!